


The Darkness That Is My Own

by Cyder



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Friendship/Love, M/M, Sherlock's Past
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-17 00:17:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1366933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyder/pseuds/Cyder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson thought about how different he and his best friend were, and then thought again about how in the end they were the same, irrevocably that same Darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Darkness That Is My Own

**Author's Note:**

> ***UPDATE: Hi guys, thanks for taking the time to read my story! I know I haven't updated either of my stories for a while now, and that's because I'm racing towards the finals week and so I'm super busy constantly studying and whatnot. So I'd like to just stay away from writing until then, and when summer break comes around the beginning of May, I'll start posting again.

Sherlock’s birthday held a special meaning in the Holmes household, because Sherlock had almost never been born at all. Mycroft spent days worrying and praying to every God he could find and told them that if they took his baby brother away, then he would blow this world up, and they'd regret that day when they didn't listen to him. Mummy looked frail and grey, her eyes a mix of exhaustion and determination. Father didn't say much, opting to just sit by his wife everyday and stroke her hair lovingly. Even when the little baby (gorgeous little baby, Mycroft cooed) was born, the doctors weren't sure he would last long. Sherlock seemed so small, even for a premature baby. 

After a thousand held breaths and million prayers (threats) by Mycroft, the hospital finally deemed the baby was healthy enough to go back with his family. That day when he jumped out of the family car and looked at his house which he had seen a thousand times but _never ___with a little brother, Mycroft promptly decided that it looked much, much better than he'd last seen it. Father supported Mummy who looked so exhausted but happy to the door, and Mycroft clutched at Mummy's hand and stared up at the head of the baby whose thin strands of hair shone golden in the sunlight. And that day when everyone was back in the safety of their house, the Holmes had a late birthday party for their second son, and the baby received his very first birthday present from Mycroft: his name.

Father and Mummy had pinky-promised Mycroft to let him name his baby sibling months beforehand, chuckling fondly at the determination that gleamed brightly in their oldest son's eyes. From then on Mycroft went to painstaking lengths to find a name that would fit perfectly for his younger sibling. It had to be special, he said adamantly, because his younger sibling was special. It also had to be beautiful, to match the beauty of the unborn baby. 

After they had blown the candles on the cake and Mummy laughed until she cried and Father kissed his second son on the forehead, Mycroft cleared his throat and demanded attention with an air of such grave importance that only made his parents laugh harder. 

"Have you decided then?" The older Holmes raised an eyebrow at his son who was beginning to look even haughtier than the Crown Prince of England. His wife giggled beside him, holding her precious little baby closer. 

Mycroft gave his parents no attention, and fixed his eyes on his younger brother's face. "I decided that his name should be-" he paused for a dramatic effect, "Sherlock." 

Instantly Mummy's eyes melted in a pool of lovely affection for her elder son. "Oh Mycroft, my beautiful boy, that's a lovely name." She looked down at the baby and cooed softly. "Did you hear that, darling? Your name is Sherlock now. Sherlock." The baby shifted and stared up at his mother. "Sherlock, my gorgeous little baby." 

From then on Sherlock's birthday was more important than a national holiday to the Holmes; it was filled with laughter, warmth, and wonderful love. Sherlock was the prized miracle of the house, the adored and pampered little darling who received all the attention any child would ever want from his family. Mycroft and Sherlock were especially close, and to a five-year-old Sherlock, big brother Mycroft was the coolest, second most important person on earth (the first, of course, was Mummy). He taught Sherlock everything from riding a bicycle to differentiating between the songs of the birds in the forest. And every birthday, his family would get him such wonderful presents that the single best day of his year, Sherlock said, was his birthday, even better than Christmas. 

When he turned five, his Father brought home a pirate ship that Father found in an antique shop near their home, the design so intricately and meticulously modeled after a real 1600's ship. As his sixth birthday present Mummy and Mycroft got him a small microscope, and Sherlock had never been happier than when he first peered into that wondrous equipment to discover the beauty of science. When Mummy had asked Sherlock what he’d wanted for his seventh birthday, he’d asked for his very first violin, a small little thing that fit perfectly in seven-year-old Sherlock’s hands. 

When he turned eight, Sherlock spent his birthday crying and clutching at Mycroft’s shirt, frightened to death by Father who was shouting and cursing at Mummy who was sobbing, sobbing, and seemed like she would never stopped sobbing.  


Mycroft gritted his teeth and surrounded his fragile little brother in a protective cage of arms, the steely resolution to not explode at his stupid, useless parents making his eyes go ice-cold. He tried as best as he could to protect his brother, as best as a fifteen year old could manage. He only wished that he could block out the sounds of the fight downstairs from Sherlock so he couldn't get hurt anymore. 

His ninth birthday was even worse than his eighth, which Sherlock hadn't thought was possible. The curtains which were always open to let the sunshine in, something Mummy always told them could heal even the sickest of the sick, were closed tight, a velvet shield of darkness. His parents forgot about their son's birthday; Father didn't so much as give a glance at his son who stood by the door with eyes filled with questions, only barking out a loud "Get out." Mummy gazed into the mirror with eyes that didn't smile anymore and just kept on applying make-up and adorning herself with jewels. When Sherlock snuggled up against her, she only gave a distracted smile and a small pat on his hiead. Only Mycroft remembered, but even he couldn't wish him a happy birthday in person, because he'd been sent to a boarding school after he went against Father for hitting Mummy. In his letter, Mycroft apologized time and again to Sherlock for leaving him, and Sherlock only shrugged and wrote back, "Dear Mycroft, I'm alright." But he wasn't alright, because he spent every night balled up in his bed crying for Father and Mummy to get better. 

Soon, Sherlock stopped crying. He had to when Mummy left the house, her eyes that usually held wonder and love and all that was good with the world clouded by an overwhelming sadness, poisoning Sherlock’s heart and making his body grow cold.  


Then the house, the house that had previously been overflowing with happiness and splendor, grew dim and dark under the paralyzing silence that engulfed the air. It was all-consuming, the grief; it consumed the house, consumed Father, and consumed little Sherlock.  


When Mycroft came back, the innocence and brilliance that he had been so proud of to see in his beloved little brother had already dissipated into the silence. Mycroft never stopped blaming himself for his mistake, even when they both grew up and became adults. 

And Sherlock, well Sherlock was still Sherlock. He still played with his pirate ship from Father, peered down to the microscope from Mummy and Mycroft, and learned to master the little violin from Mummy, but by the time he stepped outside from that house of darkness, not even the sunshine, the sunshine that Mummy always said could heal even the sickest of the sick, couldn't heal him. 

So when John Watson, an army surgeon who had recently been discharged from the military, had finally found him, it had been almost too late to save Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
